The Montmartre Investigation

by Claude Izner

  As soon as they were out of sight the door chime pealed. To Joseph’s despair, a corpulent man entered the shop, removing his top hat to reveal a bald pate: the Duc de Frioul.

  ‘Dear friend, you can guess why I’m here; I’m persuaded that you have acquired a property that might interest me – an in-quarto in yellow morocco leather, the work of the wonderful Michel! I owe my nephew a wedding gift. Let’s not beat about the bush. How much?’

  While Victor was showing the Montaigne, Joseph went into the back office. There, amongst the travel books, he nursed his grievance against the Duc’s nephew, Boni de Pont-Joubert, who had stolen his Valentine away.

  I would rather go to uncle than see Frioul; he revolts me. At least at uncle’s, when you abandon an object you love, you harbour hope of seeing it again…if only the Boss would let me go to the pawnshop, I would show them all what I’m capable of.

  Enraged, he seized a feather duster and went to dust the books behind the two men sitting at the table, engaged in a lively discussion of the price of the Montaigne.

  ‘That man is hardly better than his nephew,’ he said to himself. ‘Listen to him whining you understand, it’s a gift, blah blah blah; we’re not carpet merchants! So I’m too humble to marry Valentine, am I? Well, at least when I buy something I don’t I argue about the price!’

  He shook his duster under the nose of the Duc, who sneezed and gave him a murderous look. Victor frowned, indicating that Joseph should leave them in peace.

  The arrival of the postman created a diversion. Victor signed a receipt for a parcel, which he placed on the counter. The Duc de Frioul wrote a cheque and left with a sullen ‘Good day’. When he’d gone, Victor rubbed his hands together with pleasure.

  ‘Kenji will be delighted. You’ll have to deliver the Montaigne this afternoon to Auteuil, to Monsieur Boni de Pont-Joubert.’

  Joseph froze, ashen-faced.

  ‘I won’t go – you know very well why – you can’t force me.’

  ‘All right, all right, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ Victor replied, hastily concealing a smile as he untied the parcel.

  ‘You’re provoking me – it’s not funny!’ complained Joseph.

  ‘Stop grousing and come and look at this book that I ordered specially from London: The Sign of Four. The author is a Scottish doctor, an admirer of murder mysteries. He’s invented a detective who solves crimes using his powers of deduction. Three or four years ago I read his first novel published in an English magazine and I think his detective, Sherlock Holmes, is even better than Monsieur Lecoq.27 I thought you would like to have a first edition of the second Sherlock Holmes novel.’

  Thrilled, Joseph was at a loss to express his gratitude.

  ‘I’ll have to make a big effort to learn English so that I can read it.’

  ‘I’ll translate it for you,’ promised Victor. ‘The first chapter is called “The science of deduction”.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right up our street, M’sieu Legris, my mouth is watering. By the way, talking of deductions, why don’t I go and ferret about at the pawnshop and try to find out for you about Charmansat?’

  ‘But that will take up the whole afternoon and I’ll be stuck here.’

  ‘Please, Boss, just this once…’

  ‘Very well, off you go, Sherlock Pignot, but don’t forget to give me a detailed account of your activities!’

  Joseph made the cab stop outside the Archives Nationales, and jumped to the pavement, almost colliding with an old woman laden with baskets. He did not react to her barrage of insults. His mind was occupied by the thought that perhaps the author of the note had not been referring to the principal pawnshop as ‘uncle’, but to one of its branches. He resolved to stick to his original plan, however; he could always go to Rue du Regard, then Rue Servan afterwards if he was mistaken.

  He crossed Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and reluctantly ventured into the waiting room. Inside, he was transported back to childhood.

  Euphrosine Pignot, one hand clutching a bundle of linen, the other holding tight to a slightly hunchbacked little boy with straw-blond hair, surveyed the room. The sudden death of her husband a year earlier had left her destitute. Not daring to approach the counters, she remained planted in the middle of the comings and goings, a black-clad statue, unable to make up its mind. She, who had never had to solicit help from anyone, considered it the highest indignity to have to pledge her inheritance. In the end little Joseph had raised his head and piped up suddenly:

  ‘Are we going to thell the sheetth today or tomorrow? I don’t care; they itch anyway!’

  They had left five francs richer. It had been the first of many trips to the pawnshop.

  The memory collided with reality: a woman obviously in mourning was struggling under the weight of an enormous clock that began to belt out a Mozart melody. Joseph became aware of a strange ritual dance that was being played out around him. Bearing an eclectic mix of utensils, from wicker hampers to petrol lamps or copper jam pans, people were waiting fretfully, anxious to obtain some centimes to pay their rent or fill their bellies. Beloved everyday items, work tools, useless trifles that evoked happy memories, all these treasures would be used to pay for more ordinary necessities: underlinen, bedding, overcoats, skirts. People were forced to give up their pitiful belongings in exchange for precious little. There was a section for bundles and rags. In another corner, mattresses were taken in to be sent to the steam room for cleaning and disinfection. Further away was the section for jewellery and trinkets of some value.

  Joseph went and stood at the back of the queue. In front of him he recognised the old woman who had cursed him. In her baskets she was carrying plates and glasses wrapped in straw. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A student in threadbare clothes held up a chipped vase and asked him timidly: ‘Do you think there’s any chance I’ll get something for this?’

  A lanky fellow with a bilious complexion intervened: ‘You’re dreaming, son, dreaming. You have to be a bit cunning. I know what I’m talking about; I was a pedlar on the boulevards – they called me The Emperor, d’you know why? I had the gift of the gab; I could sell things in double quick time. I knew to keep my eyes open and to make myself scarce at the sight of a flic.’

  ‘But you’ve fallen on hard times?’ Joseph asked.

  ‘My lucky star deserted me; it was sick of the sight of me. In this world, once you have white hair and no flimsies, you have no choice but to throw in the towel or become an accomplished crook. That vase of yours, it’s worth a hill of beans.’

  ‘But it’s Sèvres,’ insisted the student.

  ‘Well, it might be, but look at the state it’s in. It’s not the Sisters of Mercy here; if they pay money it’s because they can smell a mile off that they’ll be able to sell it on for more! Have you any idea how many auctioneers there are lurking in the back?’

  Joseph and the student shook their heads.

  ‘Eight! If we poor buggers don’t come and take out of hock what we’ve pawned, those eight blighters will sell them at auction for the very great good of public assistance. When it comes to valuing our possessions at the lowest possible price, then they stir themselves. You’d be lucky to get a hundred sous for the Mona Lisa. So you and your chamber pot…’

  ‘But I tell you it’s genuine Sèvres!’

  ‘You can tell me all you like. You’ll see, and don’t blame me! It doesn’t stop them weighing the silver and gold and offering four fifths of their weight. As for the rest, if they offer you a third, you’re doing well. You’ll soon see how it works! When I get in here I say goodbye to hope. I’ve come to pawn my ticker and that’ll be the last I ever see of it!’

  ‘But surely there’s a way to stop them selling what you leave here?’ said Joseph.

  ‘Oh, there is! With a renewal, a slip of paper that entitles you to pay loan interest every year until you hit better times. All in all, some people end up paying ten or fifteen times the value of their item. The dice are loaded; the administr
ation knows how to turn a profit.’

  Discouraged, the student was about to leave when Joseph whispered to him: ‘Don’t listen to him; you might as well give it a go. It’s daylight robbery but it does help you out. As my Boss says: “Better to empty your house, than languish with an empty stomach.”’

  His spirits lifted, the student took his place in the queue again.

  At a neighbouring counter it was the turn of the musical clock. It was duly weighed and passed through the grille to the valuer under the anxious eye of its owner, where it was briskly given a valuation of ten francs. The widow exclaimed indignantly, arguing that her parents-in-law had paid a fortune for that clock, that the chime played twelve different operatic extracts, one each hour, and that she desperately needed money to pay the baker and the butcher who were threatening to cut her off. Unmoved, the woman behind the counter was already leaning towards the next woman in line, a giggling girl who had brought a man’s suit belonging to her cousin.

  ‘He became all roly-poly in the army, and now it’s like doll’s clothes on him – how much can you give me?’

  But the widow changed her mind. She pushed the girl out of the way and gave up her precious clock, receiving in return a receipt and two five franc pieces.

  ‘Thieves,’ she murmured.

  ‘Why would I try to swindle you?’ retorted the valuer. ‘I’m just doing my job. I’m only an employee.’

  ‘Do you think it’s acceptable to fleece people?’ returned the widow.

  ‘Now do you see how it works?’ said the old pedlar.

  Joseph finally reached the counter where a surly-looking cashier chewed the inside of his cheeks as he sharpened a pencil. Without looking up he drawled: ‘So, what do you have?’

  ‘Hello, Monsieur. If I were to say “Charmansat” to you, what would you say?’

  ‘I would say what on earth are you talking about? What is it, a “charmansat”?’

  ‘It’s not an object; it’s a bloke, my mother’s brother. Someone told me he works here.’

  ‘Your uncle Charmansat?’

  ‘Yes, very funny, my uncle at uncle. I’m Gaston Molina. Is he here?’

  The employee stared at him, chewing his cheeks harder, then announced gruffly: ‘Wait a minute. I’ll have to find out.’

  The minute stretched out interminably and the people behind Joseph in the queue were starting to protest when the employee returned saying: ‘He’s busy in the shop.’

  ‘Look, it’s urgent, a question of life or death. I just have to tell him something. Do me a favour and just go and tip him the wink…’

  The flash of a coin caught the employee’s eye and he swiped it and disappeared again.

  ‘Hey there, my boy, you’re not the only one here, and I’ve got better things to do than stand in this queue!’ roared the old street pedlar.

  Giving the student a conspiratorial look, Joseph pushed through the crowd and went to lose himself on a bench among the pledge agents. He took a copy of Le Passe-partout from his pocket so he’d be able to keep an eye on the counters from behind the newspaper. The surly employee soon returned, in the company of a short, pot-bellied man in a grey smock with a bald head but an abundant beard.

  ‘So that’s what a Charmansat looks like,’ murmured Joseph, buried behind his newspaper. ‘Like a villain.’

  The employee scratched his ear, shrugged his shoulders and abandoned Charmansat, who hung around uncertainly. His myopic goggle eyes blinked as he scanned the lines of people waiting, then he swung round and disappeared back into the bowels of the pawnshop.

  Joseph retraced his steps and asked one of the men in charge where the staff exit was. Lying in wait on the opposite pavement, he kept watch until Charmansat appeared surrounded by colleagues and set off with a jerky gait towards the omnibus station.

  ‘It’s too late today to follow the fellow, but next time I’ll know which burrow to flush him out of.’

  It was almost seven thirty by the time he got back to the bookshop. Kenji did not rebuke him, but told him crossly that Victor had hopped it the minute he had returned and that he also had to be out that evening.

  ‘I was beginning to feel abandoned. I’ll be home by midnight. Would you be able to dine with Mademoiselle Iris and keep her company?’

  Joseph, bristling with impatience, put down the broom he had just picked up.

  ‘Your wish is my command, Boss. I’ll warn Maman that I am required to work late.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m going to change. Please close up the shop.’

  Joseph closed the shutters and was sweeping the floor when he saw Iris at the foot of the stairs. He turned scarlet.

  ‘Take off your apron and come and eat. I’ve prepared a little dinner for us.’

  She carefully filled his plate with pâté and crudités and poured him a glass of Bordeaux. The sudden intimacy made him pensive; for a brief moment he imagined that he and this charming young girl were married, dining together in their own kitchen. But the memory of Kenji brought him back to reality, and he could not suppress a peevish gesture.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, it’s just that…I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help asking…You’re so young and he’s so…’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘The Boss and you. Excuse me but I find it shocking!’

  She covered her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter.

  ‘Why is it shocking? Love is blind to age.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m just a little old-fashioned.’

  ‘Old? You?’

  ‘If you’re in love with the Boss, then of course that changes everything. Besides, he deserves it, he knows everything about everything.’

  ‘And he’s very handsome, don’t you agree?’

  Joseph hesitated. He had never before considered Kenji’s physical attributes. Now that he thought about it, he had to admit that, in spite of his wrinkles and his greying hair, Monsieur Mori did possess a certain charm. He nodded vigorously as he tucked into his grated carrots.

  ‘So you approve of our union.’

  She was more beautiful than ever. Resignedly, he managed to smile and said: ‘Absolutely. But it is a shame.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘I don’t know, for other men. Not for Monsieur Victor of course; he has Mademoiselle Tasha.’

  ‘For…for you?’

  ‘You’re joking, a hunchback like me!’

  ‘What hunch are you referring to?’

  She was looking at him in such a friendly way that he blushed again, ecstatic to be with this beautiful girl. Valentine’s halo slipped a little.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to tell you a secret, and you mustn’t tell anyone or I’ll be very angry. I’m Monsieur Mori’s daugh– goddaughter.’

  He was not sure he had heard correctly.

  ‘So there’s nothing between you?’

  ‘Nothing but enormous affection.’

  ‘Good! That’s very good! I mean, very good carrots, don’t you agree? I would love to have some more. I suppose you’re going to be staying here quite a while? You lived for years in England; perhaps you can help me…’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Monsieur Victor gave me an English novel, and as English is a closed book to me…’

  ‘Lessons? What an excellent idea! I’m bored to death, and Kenji doesn’t allow me to go for walks. When would you like to start?’

  ‘Straight away.’

  ‘Perfect. Repeat after me: “My father is not at home.”’

  ‘That’s difficult!’

  ‘You haven’t even tried. Put your tongue against your teeth: “My father”…Come on, “ther”.’

  ‘I can’t; I have rabbit teeth!’

  Wherever Kenji looked were rumps emphasised by the tightness of corsets, and breasts on display. It mattered not that this abundance was contrived. Bosoms and bustles, wigs and fake diamonds; all were designed to satisfy one master: the desire
of men. Le Moulin-Rouge really was the temple of Eros, where gossip columnists and novelists came to feed their fancy. Woman, in all her manifestations, enticed man: whether humble errand girls or high-class prostitutes, bourgeoise women come to mingle with the masses, or street girls with shrill voices.

  Completely at ease in this universe, which was the world of his fantasies, Kenji felt both seduced and contemptuous as he watched one of the courtesans. She was given flowers by a besotted provincial lad, then promptly left him in the lurch and went off to sell them to a flower seller.

  ‘It’s interesting to watch, is it not?’ said a rather affected voice in Kenji’s ear.

  ‘It illustrates a proverb that comes to mind: “Life makes bad vaudeville. You miss the beginning and you don’t know how it ends.”’

  ‘Well said! Would you by any chance be a philosopher?’

  ‘Only a bookseller,’ replied Kenji, taking his card out and glancing briefly at his interlocutor. He saw a bourgeois man, silver at the temples, an Inverness cape thrown over his evening dress.

  ‘Delighted to meet you. Jules Navarre. I work for L’Écho de Paris. Would you be interested in furnishing me with other aphorisms of that sort, for my coming literary review?’

  ‘Unfortunately, they’re only for my private use.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Will you at least have a drink?’

  ‘I’m meeting one of the dancers.’

  Navarre burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, that’s frank! Would it be indiscreet to ask which one? I have first-hand knowledge of all the dancers! Would it be the gorgeous Chiquita, perhaps?’

  ‘Eudoxie Allard.’

  ‘Alias Fifi Bas-Rhin! She haunts the dreams of the most virtuous men. She has an imperious eye, a disdainful lip and a haughty air, but everything else is so winning! She is much less vulgar than most of them, but she flirts, or rather she likes to make conquests. You see that lothario with the sombrero sitting opposite the dwarf in pince-nez, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a painter whose star is on the rise? That’s Louis Dolbreuse, one of her would-be lovers. He’s a poet, who recites at Le Chat-Noir.